“Don’t know,” Rose’s voice had taken on its accident room clip, but the tone was conversational. “Came so suddenly hadn’t thought about it. Awful jolt in a way. Glad to be put anywhere, just so it’s the Elijah Wilson.”
“How did you find it out?” Miss Kexter’s voice had lost the skepticism.
“Oh, I don’t know. Been running an afternoon temperature, and then yesterday I spit a little blood, so I went to Dr. Cub Sterling.” She shrugged her shoulders despairingly.
“That’s a shame.” Miss Kexter’s voice, like her face, was shallow and flat. “You don’t mind that bed, do you?”
Rose’s “No. Why?” was casual.
“Oh, nothing. Just that three patients went out in it this week and they put us on the spot about it.” She had leaned forward and her whisper was flat, also. “There’s been holy hell around here. They were all patients of Father and Son.”
“Anybody know what killed them?” Rose’s voice was curiously inquiring.
“The Angels, darling. How the hell should I know? Even ‘Foots’ hasn’t seen their charts since autopsy and is she mad? ’Bout to bust a brassiere!”
Rose Standish laughed in spite of herself. The thought of Miss Roenna Kerr bursting a brassiere fitted in perfectly with her own suppressed hysteria.
Her laugh was high and thin and flutelike. It saved her tears. It cleared her system. All of her accumulating fear escaped into it.